Stitches
by The Sugarfaerie
Summary: "How are you feeling?" "Like I got thrown off a shipping container." Clint wants to make sure Natasha is all right. Natasha isn't so forthcoming.


Hello! This is a new installment of what will now most likely be an ongoing series of mine called 'Living Spaces.' It's a sequel to 'Wayside Stations' and a prequel to 'Human, Slightly Worn,' but all three fics can be read as standalones.

Warnings: mentions of injuries, off camera violence and human trafficking, nothing in detail.

Disclaimer: Nothing you see here is mine.

* * *

"You're on leave and that's final, Romanoff."

"I have a stack of reports to go through on my desk." Natasha glared at her phone as she tried to shift into a more comfortable position on the sofa. Moving one way made her ribs ache, moving the other sent pain shooting through her knee.

"Out of the question." Maria Hill's voice sounded tinny over the speakerphone. "You heard the doctor, mandatory recovery time. I shouldn't have let you leave with as much paperwork as you did." Maria sighed and Natasha could picture her pinching her nose in frustration. "Look, you haven't had vacation time in ages. Might as well try to enjoy it."

"What's enjoyable about hanging around my apartment?" Natasha tried to reach for her book and winced.

"I'm sure you'll be creative." There was a clink of a coffee cup on a saucer. Maria would be on her fourth cup by now, sitting at her desk overlooking the New York skyline. Natasha's apartment had no view to look at, and right now that detail was incredibly irritating. "See you when you're healed, Natasha."

The call ended and Natasha hauled herself up from the couch. She knew she was supposed to rest, but she couldn't abide feeling useless. Her body ached and she tried to focus on that rather than the pounding in her head.

Her phone rang again. "Yes?"

"I'm on the fire escape." Clint. Natasha's heart did a sad little skip. "Will I get fried if I come in?"

Natasha used the remote that disabled her security system. "Not anymore." He did this often in the past year, scaling the building to her window like a knight climbing a tower. Growing up in a circus had given him a flair for the theatrical.

The window slid open and Clint emerged one limb at a time, stepping onto the floor in a fluid motion that echoed the acrobats he was raised with.

"Hey," he whispered, walking over to the couch and kissing her cheek. "What's the damage?"

"Three broken ribs, stiches, bad knee," Natasha recited. "Got thrown off a shipping container."

"So I heard." He knelt down next to the couch, brushing the hair from her face. Clint was always touching her when they were alone, and Natasha wasn't sure if that came from him simply being a tactile person or if he needed proof she was still there. "How are you feeling?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. "Like I got thrown off a shipping container."

"I meant… Coulson told me the mission didn't go as planned."

"Coulson told you?" Natasha gritted her teeth. This was the disadvantage of working at a spy agency, no one knew how to mind their own business.

"Yeah. Do you need anything?"

"Apart from a much better entertainment system?" Natasha gestured vaguely around the room. "No, I'm stocked up."

Clint stood and leaned against the wall opposite her, cocking his head pointedly. "Really? So why are your painkillers lying unopened on the bench?"

Damn his observational skills. Natasha resisted the urge to fold her arms.

"Tasha," Clint said slowly. "Have you taken any pain meds at all?"

"I'm fine, Clint," she pronounced, exasperated.

"Are you?" Clint pressed. "C'mon, this isn't like you. What's going on?"

Natasha glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Clint's gaze was fixed right on her, a crease between his brows and his arms crossed, all concern and self-righteous masculinity, and Natasha bristled. "I'll take the pills," she forced through her teeth, propping herself up and resting her weight on her good knee so she could stand.

Clint pushed himself off the wall, reaching for her. "Here, I'll get them for you."

"I can get them myself."

"You shouldn't be walking around…"

"I'm not a child, Clint!" she snapped, even though she knew her petulance belied it.

"I _know _that, but you're hurt." Clint rolled his eyes like he would at a stroppy new recruit. "There's nothing wrong with needing-"

"Since when do _you _know what anyone _needs_? If you came here just so you can feel good about yourself-"

"Jesus, would you stop? I'm here because I love you."

Natasha froze.

Clint broke off, like he had registered what he just said, and threw his hands up in defeat. "You know what, fine. Maybe I should go."

He stomped towards his backpack, face turned away.

Natasha's heart lurched and she could move again. "Clint, wait." She reached out to him, wanting grab hold and not let go. "Don't leave."

Clint's bag dropped to the floor. "Tasha…"

"I'm sorry," she blurted, cursing herself in her mind. It was only a matter of time before she screwed up. "I'm no good at this."

His voice softened. "Good at what?"

_"This."_ One hand formed a fist against the cushion. "Talking, being… together. For real. I don't know how to do this."

The corner of Clint's mouth lifted. "Honey, I've been married and I don't know how to do this."

She laughed even though it wasn't funny, and then it became something worse, something unthinkable, and Clint was by her side, his arms around her as she buried her face in his shoulder, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

"They had girls," she whispered finally, her lips moving against the soft fabric of his shirt. "On the ship. A dozen girls, stuffed into a container. Like rats."

Clint's arms tightened around her, one hand rubbing her back.

"I had to save them." Her voice was so hoarse.

Clint kissed her on the forehead. "I know."

"It wasn't enough. Shots fired, they panicked. Civilians." Natasha held on so tightly to his shirt that she was sure he could feel the prick of her fingernails against his skin. "One girl ran. She took a bullet in the arm." She gripped harder. "I stopped the bleeding and all I could think was how stupid she was to run out in open fire. What does that make me, Clint? I'm not human. I shouldn't be real."

"Hey, it's okay." Clint moved back a little to meet her eyes. "You'll always be human to me."

Natasha stared, until the laughter burst from her. "Oh my god, Barton, could you get any cheesier?"

Clint grinned. "What? I like that you're human. I haven't had the best experience with robots."

Natasha laughed harder, giddy with relief, kissing him in tiny, short bursts until all the tension was released and she relaxed against him.

"I meant it, Clint," she murmured. "I don't know how to love you right."

Clint drew a sharp breath, then cupped her face in his hands and gave her a lingering kiss. The warmth in his eyes when they broke apart was enough to break her heart. "So about those pain meds…" he suggested.

Natasha rested her head on his shoulder again. "They make me drowsy. Slow reaction time."

"Fair point," said Clint, moving his hand to stroke the soft underside of her wrist. He raised her fingers to his lips. "Well, I don't have to leave until six, so I can wake you if the robots attack again."

Natasha brushed her lips against his jaw. Clint had a flight to catch and he couldn't be operating on much sleep, and yet here he was, offering to keep watch. His smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and she kissed those too.

Clint helped her to her feet and she leaned on him, taking the weight off her sore knee as he steered her towards the darkened bedroom. She arranged herself on the mattress and he pulled the blankets over her, his face a soft silhouette, and he disappeared back to the kitchen while she rested on her uninjured side.

Moments later he appeared again, carrying the pill bottle and a glass of water, and Natasha studied him as she accepted the glass, condensation cool against her hand.

Three years ago, when Clint introduced himself to her properly while she was handcuffed to a table in a S.H.I.E.L.D interrogation cell, Natasha thought, this is a man who knows who he is. He wore his scars without apology, and he loved her.

In the Red Room, the greatest flaw was pride. They trained her too well, the Black Widow, their greatest creation. They taught her to mimic emotion; to slip into new skins, to craft faces and names and keep them within herself like matryoshka dolls, layer after layer, so no one would find the girl beneath. Let her handlers believe she was everything they wanted, until the time came to prove them fools.

She swallowed the pills while Clint lay down next to her on top of the blankets at an angle that gave him full sight of both the closed door and the window. When she settled her head against the pillows his hand covered hers between them.

'Together' meant late night visits and wonky scars from where they'd sewn each other up. It was fucking in the gym and sharing a sleeping bag in the cold. It was a mug of tea left on the bedside table before one of them left in the early hours; it was Bruce Springsteen CDs in Natasha's living room and Pushkin in Clint's bookcase.

Maybe that was enough.


End file.
